


Shall We Try?

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But Mrs. Hudson ships them, F/M, Mycroft reads poetry, Reader has some issues, So does Mycroft, So does Sherlock in his strange way, Some Fluff, some drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3694331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His voice washes over you as warm as the sun and as rhythmic as the waves steadily hitting the shore. It does not matter about the words he speaks it only matters that his voice is serving as a constant just as his chest, which vibrates under your touch as he speaks. The room is barely lit but in your mind it feels like there must be a warm glow encompassing the whole room like your own private constellation.<br/>A Mycroft/Reader story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall We Try?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first reader insert fic. So I hope you enjoy it and any feedback would be much appreciated. :)

Sherlock looks up at you as you enter the room. You wish he wouldn't and deliberately avoid his gaze. 

 

But it does not stop that deep, velvety voice from announcing, “He didn't show up.”

 

You are tempted to stride into the kitchen, shove the barely touched picnic hamper wherever there is space and then dart out again, back to the comfort and relative privacy of 221C.

 

To think you’d been so happy this morning, you’d practically bounced around and sung as you buttered the now uneaten sandwiches. 

 

But Sherlock’s words make you angry. Too angry to walk away. So instead you dump the picnic hamper on the floor and tug the hair band out of your h/c hair, whilst you snap, “No, Sherlock, you know what he didn't. And you know what he made me stand there for half-an-hour, before he even sent a text, he wasn't even brave enough to call me, so I don’t feel like dealing with your rubbish now.” By the time you get to the end of that little rant you are breathing quite hard and your fists are clenched. 

 

Sherlock however seems calm and indifferent to your words as he sits there polishing his violin and the only response he gives you is, “I told you he’d let you down.”

 

You huff at the inadequate response and decide that perhaps striding off to 221C isn't a bad idea after all. 

 

When John comes home the first thing he notices is the picnic hamper still on the floor. 

 

“Um?” he begins, pointing at the hamper, whilst half-wondering if he actually wants to know at all. 

 

Sherlock, now standing by the window, half-turned away from John, just simply says, “Mycroft didn't show up.”

 

“Ah,” John replies, sudden understanding washing over his face. 

 

*

 

It wasn't like it had been the first time Mycroft has, had to cancel on you. Nor you suppose would it be the last. But that doesn't stop you from feeling frustrated as you lie on top of the f/c duvet on your bed. 

 

He’d promised to meet at your favourite restaurant last winter and you’d been sat there, trying to smile, whilst you kept putting off ordering until he’d phoned to put you out of your misery. Then there had been that incident in February, which had caused him to be out of the country for two weeks. Not to mention all the times where he’d shown but then had to leave because of a phone call or text. So this was just the latest in a long list. 

 

And it wasn't like you weren't good at being on your own. As an only child entertaining yourself should have been a skill to put on your CV. But sometimes you just wanted your supposed boyfriend to actually be there for you. To actually focus on you instead of being half there or there but with vacant eyes and long, slender fingers that reached for the phone at any given opportunity. 

 

You sit up and rest your back against your headboard. You've been patient and tried to understand but you are seriously thinking that you might have to say something. You can’t go on like this forever. Even if it means-

 

“F/N? Are you okay? Sherlock said you had a bit of a disappointment earlier,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice floats through the door. 

 

You are sure Sherlock hadn't quite put it that way but anyway you swallow, swing off the bed and go to open the door. 

 

You try to smile at Mrs. Hudson, she is being kind to you after all as she always is, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes and it is both faltering and fleeting on your lips. 

 

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson says as she regards you sadly, before she grasps your wrist, squeezes it briefly and then leads you to her kitchen where she puts the kettle on straight away. 

 

You sit at the table and chew on your lip feeling awkward. 

 

“That Mycroft Holmes has got a lot to answer for,” Mrs. Hudson says crossly as she puts a teabag in each cup. 

 

You can’t even smile at that because even after everything you still want to go out with him even though it hurts. 

 

Mrs. Hudson tuts and then once she finishes making the tea she brings over both cups and settles them on the table. A moment later a plate of biscuits joins them. 

 

You only feel more awkward when she sits down. Her eyes never leave your face but truly you don’t know what to say. 

 

In the end she just puts her hand on top of yours on the table and you just sit there in silence. 

 

*

 

Mycroft comes round the next morning. 

 

Sherlock and John are out on a case so you've taken refuge in Sherlock’s armchair with your favourite book. You’d read the beginning of it so many times because you always went to read it again when you were sad. Then you’d come out of your slump and back it would go on the shelf, its mission accomplished. 

 

He knows you are angry with him. You can tell by the way he hesitates by the door, rocking back and forth on his feet slightly as his pale blue eyes study your expression and posture. Your favourite flowers are in his hands and the hook of his umbrella is curved around his arm. 

 

Instinctively upon seeing him you place your book aside, frown, not in the least because he is observing you in your most comfortable, baggy hoodie and pull your knees close to your chest. 

 

Mycroft sighs slightly. He knows that he has to talk first. So after a little, fluttery breath he murmurs, “These are for you, to apologise for yesterday. I appreciate it must have been frustrating for you.”

 

“Do you?” you snap, before you can help it, before you bite your lip. 

 

His face, which had tensed up at your words, softens slightly at the uncertain action, before he attempts, “I can assure you, my dear, that if I could have gotten out of the engagement I would have. I would have much rather been with you.”

 

“Then prove it,” you say, before you fold your arms and let your feet drop back down to the floor. 

 

He frowns at your childish behavior, before he asks, “How, pray tell, can I do that?” 

 

You swallow, you know you are acting awkwardly to a point, but in that moment you can’t help it. Most of the calls and texts you’d received from the man in front of you had been careful let downs after all. So you reply, “By actually taking me with you to an event for once.”

 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. He had, had no idea that you’d wanted to go to, what he was sure you’d thought would be a boring event. But if that was what you wanted then, “Fine. There is one this weekend on the outskirts of London. You are welcome to come with me and of course stay with me at the hotel. But F/N I cannot promise you that I’ll be able to spend a lot of time with you.”

 

His words though seem to placate you enough, for after you murmur, “Fine,” you slip out of your seat and go to kiss him, taking care not to crush the flowers. 

 

You break out of the kiss, before he is satisfied and before you can step back he asks in a husky voice, “Is that all the thanks I get for bringing your favourite flowers?” 

 

You can’t help but smirk, before you reach forward, take the flowers and his umbrella from him and rest them both carefully down on the arm of the chair. 

 

He smiles as he watches you. You’re usually shy so he likes it when you take control.

 

Then he likes it even more when you tug him forward by his tie and stand on your tiptoes to kiss him again. He steadies you with one hand on your waist, whilst the other tangles through your h/c hair, before it joins his other hand on your waist. He bites down a little on your bottom lip and you make a small, breathy sound, before his tongue enters your mouth. 

 

Your bodies are flush together as the kiss goes ever so deeper and you know it cannot last much longer but then-

“Oh God!” comes a loud voice and you and Mycroft spring away from each other, both of your faces flushed as you turn to see Sherlock standing there. 

 

John comes behind him a moment later and begins to ask, “Sherlock what”- before he peeks around the lanky detective to see both you and Mycroft there. 

 

Even John doesn’t need one of Sherlock’s deductions to see what has happened. 

 

It is obvious from your messy hair, the blush on your face and the way your f/c top is riding up slightly. Not to mention the way a light blush dusts its way across Mycroft’s cheeks along with his crumpled tie, which sticks out over the top of his waistcoat. 

 

“Brother, John,” Mycroft nods as if he and you had simply been in a business meeting. 

 

But then he casts you a soft glance and you feel warm inside, before he touches your hand delicately, a light brush with the tips of his fingers and then, “I shall pick you up Friday afternoon,” he says, before he retrieves his umbrella and in the next moment he is gone. 

 

*

 

The trip across London on Friday is a pleasant one. You sit in the back of one of the sleek, black cars that have become such a symbol of Mycroft to you with Mycroft himself beside you. Your leg rests against his, your head alternates from resting down upon Mycroft’s shoulder to being in a more upright position and every now and again Mycroft catches your hand in his and studies your fingers, pulling them apart from each other as if trying to memorise them for an examination. Whilst a soft breeze darts in through the small gap in the window and toys with your hair. 

 

Finally the car turns off down a long gravel pathway and teasingly reveals the elegant, tall building that has ivy creeping up its sides through the trees that line the sweeping lawns, before it glides smoothly across a small stone bridge and then curves around a fountain until it comes to a stop. 

 

Mycroft, ever the gentleman gets out first, before he holds the car door open for you. 

 

Up close the venue seems even taller and more imposing and you begin to feel a little nervous and out of place. 

 

Mycroft catches your expression and offers you his arm but you shake your head and a trace of amusement tugs at his thin lips. He knows you are being stubborn and refusing his offer of comfort because you do not want anyone to think you weak. 

 

So whilst the driver fiddles with both your luggage Mycroft and you ascend the steps into both where you will be staying and where the conference will be held. 

 

When you reach the top first you are about to go in but before you can a spindly man with thinning hair but a large, white moustache and crinkled green eyes steps out in front of you and booms, “Ah, Mycroft good to see you!” 

 

Mycroft reaches around you to shake his hand, whilst you stand there feeling a bit like you used to whenever you were out with your parents and they ran into an old friend. 

 

Then, “And who might this be? Surely she’s not with you Mycroft?” the man asks as his eyes rake over you. 

 

You tense a little, not sure how Mycroft will react, but then, “Actually, she is. F/N I’d like you to meet Jeremy Wallis.”

 

“Goodness, well, this is quite something. Mycroft hasn't brought a plus one with him to an event in…well, ever,” Jeremy comments, still staring at you as if you are the most fascinating thing he has seen for decades. 

 

You’re starting to feel a little irritated by Jeremy and his constant gaze but you can’t look at Mycroft for help either. You know full well that he’ll be slightly flushed from Jeremy’s last comment. But still part of you feels slightly pleased too at being Mycroft’s first plus one. 

 

Similar conversations take place again and again, before finally Mycroft and you reach your room. 

 

He presses a hand to the small of your back, whilst you fumble to open the door and then when it clicks open he guides you inside. 

 

The first thing you notice is that your luggage is there waiting for you and then you notice that the room is larger than you’d been expecting and even though you are barely outside the city it feels fresh and light. The walls are white and decorated here and there by pictures of landscapes, one with the sun glinting through a forest and just past the thin, almost transparent curtains directly opposite you lies-

 

“Is that a balcony?” you can’t help but ask and entranced you begin to step forward. 

 

“Yes it is,” Mycroft murmurs; before he follows you out onto it. 

 

You can see the main city from the balcony, the various shapes of the buildings pointing up into the skyline, but the noise coming from it is just a low thrum. You feel suddenly at peace and take a breath. Perhaps you will be able to see the stars from the balcony tonight. 

 

Mycroft alternates between gazing at the view and gazing at you. He wonders what you are thinking and hopes that you won’t regret coming. 

 

His phone vibrates in his pocket. It feels harsh and unpleasant against his chest and it makes a small sigh escape from his lips. 

 

“You have to go?” you turn to him and say knowingly. 

 

He meets your eyes and nods, “Yes, there’s always a brief discussion before dinner and the small talk begins. I’ll see you in about an hour?” 

 

You nod and he pecks your lips briefly, before he leaves you on the balcony. 

 

*

 

You sit in front of the small vanity table and stare at yourself in the mirror. Or rather at the dress you’d brought with you. It is blue, simple and somewhat elegant you suppose but you still feel uncertain of it. You’d chosen it because you’d assumed it would be more suitable and less flashy, but you know that the red one, now hanging uselessly in your wardrobe back at 221C, would look far better on you. You chew on your bottom lip and huff a little as you run a frustrated hand through your h/c hair. There is something else that you feel uncertain about too. The double bed is reflected in the mirror and every time you move it seems to flash before your eyes. You have never shared a room with Mycroft before and you’d been too determined to make everything work to mention it before coming but you hope now that Mycroft doesn't think you are going to give him something more over the weekend. You definitely aren't ready for that. 

 

You check the time. The hour is almost up. The dress and everything else will have to do. You get up and make your way out of the room. 

 

*

 

The cliques are already forming as you descend back down again. Women who have no doubt known each other for years are gathered gossiping here and there in the utmost state of dress and you suddenly realize that perhaps your red dress wouldn't have been so out of place after all. This is the place it seems to be flashy. 

 

Tides of people have gathered downstairs and they practically carry you into the main ballroom. There will be music and no doubt dancing later on but for now there are just people, mainly women, chatting to each other and catching up, whilst they wait for the dining room to be ready. 

 

You decline a glass of champagne on the way in and look around for the comforting sight of Mycroft but he isn't anywhere in sight. Perhaps he hasn't been released yet. But before you can delve any further into the throng a group of three ladies, all in very frumpy gowns with a string of pearls around their necks, surround you. 

 

The smallest of the three, wearing a mink scarf around her shoulders and her brown hair upright in a bun, begins her interrogation at once, “Ah, I don’t believe we've met. Whom might you be here with then?” 

 

You swallow and look for an exit but they've got you covered well. So instead you push your hair away from your face and stand up as straight as you can, before you reply, “I'm F/N L/N and I'm with Mycroft Holmes.” You cringe a little as soon as you say it, for it sounds like you are in a support group. 

 

The three ladies are focusing too much on what you’d said however to contemplate on how you’d said it and they exchange glances with raised eyebrows, before they turn on you again. 

 

“Well, this is quite a development. Where did the two of you meet? How long have you been together? Long enough to be invited to an event evidently”-

 

“Oh, come now ladies, the evening is young. I'm sure you’ll have plenty of time to talk to F/N later. But for now I must ask F/N to accompany me to dinner,” Mycroft says as he sweeps onto the scene, before he offers you his arm and you take it with a grin at the ladies shocked expressions, before you allow yourself to be swept away. 

 

“I hope you weren't suffering for long my dear,” Mycroft says peering down at you as you navigate through the crowd together. 

 

You have to smile at that, “It was long enough but I think you came just in time,” you assure him and he smiles at you. 

 

He takes you right to your chair, which he pulls out so that you can sit down, before he settles into his own, which thankfully is right beside yours. 

 

You smile at him briefly, before you catch sight of the amount of cutlery that is apparently yours and look down at it in astonishment. How many courses exactly are there going to be?

 

“Outside in,” Mycroft murmurs into your ear as the soup begins to be brought out and served and you look at him both feeling grateful and foolish. 

 

You feel really out of place now. If you can’t even handle cutlery at dinner then-

 

Mycroft’s hand slides underneath the pristine, white tablecloth and begins to rub soothing circles onto the top of your leg. 

 

You swallow and nod. Everything is fine. No one has noticed your cutlery dilemma and you can continue your evening without any more mishaps and-

 

But then you make the fatal mistake of looking up and catching several of the women looking at Mycroft and you, before they look away again. Well some of them do. Some of them just keep on staring. 

 

“You’ll find it’s a bit like being placed under the microscope,” Mycroft murmurs and a small giggle escapes your lips at that, which only causes more attention to be thrown your way. But your laugh only grows larger when Mycroft looks up and raises an eyebrow at the perpetrators. This time every one of the women looks away. 

 

Still you are relieved and rather too full for your liking when dinner is over. But then everyone makes their way into the ballroom again and you remember about the possibility of dancing. You feel so full that you suddenly don’t know if you’ll be able to but Mycroft has led you out onto the floor, before you can even consider going to sit down off on the side and suddenly his hand, seeping its warmth, is on your waist whilst the other latches onto your hand. 

 

“There,” he says with a quiet kind of triumph in his voice as you look up at him, “I can finally see the beautiful dress you’re wearing without interruption.”

 

“You hope,” you begin a bit playfully, before your heart jumps as the soft music starts, for you are quite certain that Mycroft and you are being watched again. 

 

Mycroft becomes perfectly still at your words, and his eyes latch onto yours, before he does something quite unexpected. He cups your cheeks quickly with clumsy hands and bends to kiss you on the lips. 

 

He’s pulled away, before you can even register what is going on but the act still sends you into a slightly dazed state. 

 

“It’s just you and me,” Mycroft says, before, “All right?” he asks gently. 

 

You nod, still surprised. 

 

His lip twitches in amusement and then he begins to dance and you follow his lead and that is that. 

 

“I’d forgotten how well you can dance my dear,” Mycroft begins and you smile a little hesitantly, “But then again you were taught by one of the best,” and the compliment slips as does the expression on Mycroft’s face now as he remembers the memory. 

 

You remember it too. 

 

_“I'm bored, come on,” Sherlock had said one night in the depths of winter when it was windy and cold and you couldn't walk down the street without being forced to dodge several puddles._

 

_You’d looked up from the book that you’d been reading to see Sherlock stood there, his hand outstretched, and an expression of determination on his face. You’d raised an eyebrow at him. Then, “What are we doing?” you’d asked._

 

_“I'm going to teach you how to dance,” he’d murmured, before he’d added, “I've seen you watch enough couples dancing in those sappy films you like to know you want to.”_

 

_You’d rolled your eyes but put your book down nonetheless and then had allowed him to pull you to your feet._

 

_He’d put his other hand on your waist and then had instructed you to put your free hand upon his shoulder, which you’d done. Your eyes had been upon your feet, for you’d always been a little clumsy, through the first few basic swaying movements that you’d done together. That was until after a little sigh he’d lifted your chin with a delicate finger and your breath had tightened in your chest as your eyes had fallen on his. They’d seemed particularly blue that day but the longer you’d looked the more you’d found yourself catching sight of other colours. Your hands had suddenly itched to draw them. And when you’d broken eye contact that hadn't helped much either because then your eyes had fallen to the tightly fitted purple shirt that he wore, which you had, had to admit looked very good on him even though you found yourself more attracted to Mycroft than Sherlock._

 

*

 

_Mycroft had crossed the road to 221B with a spring in his step that day._

 

_It had been quite a short day for him and though he’d known work-wise that it could continue, strictly speaking he’d been free to go and visit his favourite distraction. Oh, he’d watched a snippet of you on CCTV that day of course but he hadn't popped around for a while. Technically of course he’d been going to keep an eye on his wayward younger brother, whom you would probably be with at the moment. And he’d imagined walking in and seeing Sherlock, his legs pulled up to his chest, as he sat on his usual armchair and complained of boredom, whilst John tried to type something on his blog and you lied on the settee, your legs splayed across it, as you made a waspish comment in return to Sherlock, whilst your eyes were firmly on whatever book you were currently reading. He’d smiled and tapped smartly on the door with the knocker that of course he’d had to straighten. He’d twirled his umbrella, whilst he waited and smiled again as he thought of your face. Then he’d chimed a polite greeting to Mrs. Hudson, before he’d hurried swiftly and silently upstairs. He’d come to a stop in the doorway. For what he’d imagined happening couldn't have been further from the truth. For instead of being sat on the settee with a book you’d been stood, one of your hands entwined with Sherlock’s, whilst the other trailed down to his chest. You’d been dancing together. Mycroft’s breath had stabbed him in the chest, before it had come out in a gasp._

 

_Sherlock’s eyes had sprung up and across, whilst you’d let go of him and turned just in time to see Mycroft’s heel as it disappeared from sight._

 

_You’d known who it was and you’d felt frustrated with yourself for letting the situation occur, before you’d taken after him with a cry of, “Mycroft, wait!” whilst Sherlock had watched the scene with intrigue in his eyes._

 

_You’d barely rounded the corner of the stairs when the front door slammed so hard that Mrs. Hudson had come out to investigate._

 

_“Oooh, F/N, whatever’s going on?” she’d uttered, before you’d torn past her as you reached the bottom of the stairs._

 

_You’d looked left and right once you’d stepped out and drawn your loose jacket more tightly around you because of the cold. Then you’d folded your arms and began to walk down the street on the right when you’d seen Mycroft as he lit a cigarette on the corner. You’d smelt cigarettes around him but you’d never actually seen him smoke before. You’d stepped beside him, whilst your arms still hugged your chest and hesitated a moment, before you’d turned your head to look at him. But he hadn't been looking at you. He’d been focused on the building opposite, whilst he smoked. You’d wondered if he was really seeing it._

 

_Then a moment later he’d said curtly, “I apologise. I hadn't realized that by calling I’d be interrupting something.”_

 

_You’d wanted to shake him but you’d settled for a somewhat tense, “You weren't.”_

 

_“When did my brother and you take your relationship to the next level? It must be a recent occurrence I presume?”_

 

_“We haven’t,” you’d told him, whilst you’d felt both frustrated and exasperated, before you hadn't been able to hold it in any longer so, “Mycroft, please look at me,” you’d pleaded._

 

_A beat had passed, before he’d turned his head. His face had been even and calm as per usual but something had flashed in his eyes when they’d met yours and it had made something twist uncomfortably in your chest. You hadn't even been going out with Mycroft but it somehow seemed like you’d still managed to mess everything up. You’d swallowed, then, “Please believe me when I say I'm not dating Sherlock and nor do I want to.”_

 

_He’d looked uncertain at this and you’d wondered if his mind was wandering back to what he’d seen in the flat, before he’d said flatly, “Your hand was on his chest.”_

 

_You’d huffed out a breath and ran a hand through your tousled hair, then, “It didn't mean anything. It was just there, I don’t even remember doing it.”_

 

_He hadn't looked convinced, but then something had seemed to come over him and he’d shaken himself slightly, before he’d finished his cigarette, discarded it on the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. Then, “Whether you do or don’t I suppose really it is of no consequence to me. But if you do start dating my brother treat him with care won’t you?” He’d made to leave then but you’d grabbed his wrist and he’d turned as the words, “It’s not him I want to date,” had tumbled out of your mouth._

 

_Slowly he’d stepped back and turned to look at you._

 

_You’d swallowed, let go of his wrist, and ducked your head, barely able to look at him as you ran a distracted hand through your hair. But his eyes had been firmly on you and you’d known that you owed him an explanation after such words so somehow you’d raised your gaze to meet his and uttered, “Oh God, you’re going to think I'm such an idiot for stumbling this out in such a way but I don’t want to date Sherlock, Mycroft because I want to date you. And I know you don’t really do stuff like that and if you did you wouldn't want to date me but that’s how I feel so, yeah.” You’d spoken it all practically in one breath and so by the time you’d finished you’d just had to take a moment to breathe, whilst you’d braced yourself for whatever reaction was coming. In the end because you hadn't been able to bear to look at the weird look on Mycroft’s face or those beautiful blue eyes your own eyes had fluttered shut of their own accord._

 

_Soft lips had pressed against yours and you’d gasped a little into Mycroft’s mouth, whilst he’d wrapped an arm around your waist to steady you, before you’d kissed him back. He’d tasted of cigarette smoke and soap and something expensive. He’d tasted of Mycroft._

 

_You’d pulled away momentarily, before he’d cupped the back of your neck and drawn you to him once more._

 

_After a while you’d both drawn apart from each other and when your foreheads had rested against each other and soft puffs of your breath had filled the air Mycroft had asked you with a bit of a grin, “I realize we've probably just skipped a stage but I don’t suppose you’d like to accompany me somewhere for coffee?”_

 

_“I’d love to,” you’d replied in a soft, breathy giggle._

 

_“Good,” he’d got out, before he’d claimed your lips with his once more._

 

_You’d gotten back late that night. Mycroft and you had talked for an age; before he’d insisted on walking you home and you’d been practically floating as you’d entered._

 

_Sherlock had been sat on the stairs waiting for you and he’d gotten up when you’d entered. He’d given you a quick once over. Then, “I thought so,” he’d concluded, before, “Make sure he looks after you.”_

 

_You’d thought of Mycroft kissing you, Mycroft walking you home, your arm linked with his, Mycroft’s eyes fixed on your face as you drank coffee and smiled._

 

You come out of the memory and squeeze Mycroft’s hand a little when you see the thoughtful expression on his face. Remembering that night has made you also remember that you aren't the only one who gets a bit uncertain at times and you have the feeling that you should try and remember such a thing more often. Mycroft returns to the present at your firm touch and smiles slightly at you. 

 

You dance for two more songs and Mycroft’s gaze barely leaves you, before you take a small break to socialise and then dance some more. 

 

It is at the end of a slow song when Mycroft whispers into your ear, “I think it would be perfectly acceptable for us to retire now if you so wished.”

 

Your heart slams against your chest at the words and their possible implications or perhaps it does that because of the way his breath tickles against your ear. 

 

But, “O-Okay,” you say and he smiles down at you again, kisses your cheek and then leads you out of the room. 

 

Some of the ladies turn away from their dance partners so that they can follow Mycroft and you out of the room. You know what they are thinking and what they are expecting Mycroft and you to be doing very shortly and you feel nervous once again. But even more important to you is what Mycroft, who is slightly in front of you as he tugs you by the hand, expects of you. 

 

Outside your room you fumble with the key for a moment, before it fully fits into the lock and you enter the room first. 

 

Mycroft’s hands slip around your waist and cause you to turn so that your body is flush against his, before he assaults your lips with his. 

 

The key slips out of your hand and clatters against the floor, which causes Mycroft to smile into the kiss, before he closes the door behind him with his foot. 

 

Your hands reach up to comb through Mycroft’s hair, whilst his glide up and down your hips, causing you to moan softly into his mouth when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. 

 

He breaks out of the kiss and you rest your hands against the silk of his ruffled tie, whilst he rests his forehead against yours. 

 

You’d pondered on how you would feel ever since you’d first set eyes on the double bed. You’d shrugged and almost brushed it off as something that could be easily stopped if things started heading in that direction. But now with Mycroft’s soft puffs of breath hitting your face and his beautiful eyes on yours you feel scared because you want more and you aren’t sure if he kisses you again and again, whether you’ll be able to stop. 

 

Mycroft must see something shift in your eyes, for he murmurs, “We don’t have to do anything more. Why don’t we just lie on the bed for a while?” 

 

You aren't sure if lying on the bed is a good idea but you swallow and nod. 

 

He smiles a little at you and then leads you by the hand. Then together, with your hands still entwined, you take off both of your shoes. You step out of yours and he kicks his off. When you straighten up his eyes are locked onto you. You’re torn between three emotions, feeling self-conscious at the deepness of his gaze, feeling even shorter without your heels and going over and kissing him squarely on the mouth. Hesitation of course prevents you from choosing the latter option. 

 

So instead when Mycroft doesn't look away from you, you just ask a soft, shy, “What?” before you bite your lip. 

 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers and then somehow your lips are on his and you aren't quite sure who had initiated it. Perhaps you both had. 

 

All you know is that you first feel the bed when the backs of your knees hit against it, before suddenly you are lying on it and Mycroft is half leaning over you, his lips roaming down to do something that feels incredibly good to your neck. 

 

You moan and he pulls away from your neck panting. When your eyes meet his you see that his pupils are blown and wonder if yours are too. 

 

Then before you can think about it you are kissing him again, whilst your hands pry open his jacket and push it off, before moving onto his waistcoat. You are at his shirt when he pulls slightly away from where he is straddled upon your hips and asks a little breathlessly, “F/N?”

 

You close your eyes, breathing hard. You know this is him being a gentleman and stopping you from doing anything you might regret but you’d been so close to not thinking, to just acting and feeling, but now you can’t stop thinking so you snap your eyes open and breathe, “We should probably cool down.”

 

He nods, his hair tousled slightly across his forehead, before he gets off you carefully and goes to fetch a drink from the mini bar that’s in the room. 

 

You just lie there for a moment with every intention of joining him in a minute. But that minute never happens because the next thing you know you are waking up. 

 

The only light in the room is the small lamp on the bedside table. 

 

You turn on your side, whilst your eyes adjust to the semi-darkness. 

 

You can just make out Mycroft on the balcony, a glass of something; wine perhaps, in his hand. He has his back turned towards you. His jacket and waistcoat are still off and his sleeves are rolled up slightly. His auburn hair glints in the moonlight. He looks beautiful. 

 

When you get up and drift across to him, not saying a word but just standing next to him and looking at the lights of the city it feels almost like you are in a dream. 

 

“I hope I didn't disturb you my dear,” he murmurs politely, half-looking at you, before he looks out across the city again. 

 

“You didn't. How long was I asleep for?” you reply, trying to be normal but equally trying not to look at him too closely because in this close proximity and with the smell of his cologne lingering in the air between you all you can think about is what had happened earlier, his hands on you and yours peeling off the layers that hung frustratingly between you. 

 

He is looking at you curiously you suddenly realize and you feel a blush light across your cheeks like a fire made by a match. 

 

“Not long,” he finally replies, “A couple of hours perhaps.” He does not mention the fact that he’d sat by you and watched as you slept, whilst he’d thought about how everyone at the event probably wondered why he’d chosen someone like you when all he could wonder was why you’d chosen someone like him. 

 

“Dance with me,” you blurt out. 

 

He raises an eyebrow at you. 

 

“Everything feels like a dream right now, I think I just need to find out whether this is real,” you say, and despite how crazy you must sound he doesn't mock you. Instead he goes to put his drink down, and then he returns to you, takes one hand in his and puts the other on his waist. 

 

You move slowly together side to side, whilst you take everything in. The sight of him, the feel of him close to you, the way his blue eyes seem to study your face so intently and then you lean up to taste the wine on his lips. He groans a little as you bite down on his bottom lip, before your tongue slips across it into his mouth, which causes his hands to tighten on you. 

 

He lets you take control and lets you explore his mouth until he feels his phone vibrate in the front pocket of his shirt. You feel it too and begin to withdraw from him. He tries to re-connect with your lips, to tell you that it is all right to continue but your lips have barely joined together again when the phone vibrates even more insistently. 

 

He pulls back with a sigh and an apology. 

 

You look back out across the city, whilst he takes the call. You notice that you can’t see the stars from the balcony after all and your heart can’t help but sink, not only because of that but as you listen too. For it sounds like Mycroft will have to leave you soon. 

 

And sure enough when he comes off the phone he looks at you and his eyes tell you that he is torn between trying to stay in the moment here with you and already thinking of whatever matter he is needed for now. 

 

“You have to go don’t you?” you ask him even though the answer is clear. 

 

“I'm afraid so my dear,” he replies, before he pecks you on the lips and goes back into the room to slip on his waistcoat and jacket. 

 

You follow him and watch, as he gets ready to depart. Then he turns to you and informs you, “I'm afraid I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

 

“It’s fine, I’ll just read or sleep or something,” you tell him. 

 

He gives you half a smile and then leaves. 

 

The first hour passes quickly; you settle in bed with the remainder of Mycroft’s wine and browse the Internet on your phone, passing through some of the usual websites you visit like tumblr and looking at funny videos on YouTube. Then you try to read some of the book you’d brought with you but you can’t concentrate. Perhaps because you’d secretly hoped that you’d spend so much time with Mycroft that you wouldn't have time to look at it. 

 

Then the time goes slowly until you drift off, only to wake around half-an-hour later to the sound of the couple in the room next door having sex. It makes you cringe and you wonder suddenly awkwardly whether they’d heard Mycroft and you earlier. 

 

Eventually you fall off to sleep again. This time you don’t wake again until ten past four in the morning. The other side of the bed is still empty and cold and it makes something uneasy settle in your stomach. 

 

And suddenly it is like that is that and you have to get out of the room. So you get up, smooth down your crumpled dress because you couldn't be bothered to change earlier, slip into flat shoes rather than heels and leave the room. Everywhere seems quiet and dark. You make your way down and out of the hotel, before you find yourself being drawn across to the small stone bridge and the gurgling of the river beneath it. You sit partly on the bridge and just gaze at the water and your surroundings for an age, thoughts tumbling through your mind, whilst the light breeze ruffles your hair. 

 

Because when it comes down to it nothing has changed. You’d come with Mycroft to this event and snatched moments of time with him but it was never quite enough. You were never left feeling fully satisfied, only disappointed when he had to leave yet again. And you know things won’t change. How can they? Mycroft will never stop working and you’ll never want to be the reason he does. Tears begin to slide down your face. You don’t want to but you know that you can’t just carry on and expect the amount of time you see Mycroft for to be enough indefinitely. 

 

The sound of a car approaching makes you stir and sit up straighter, whilst stubbornly looking away from the road because you don’t want a complete stranger to see you in such a mess. 

 

But then the taxi pulls up alongside you and your heart jumps, before Sherlock gets out of the back of it. 

 

“Sherlock!” you cry, practically leaping into his arms. Then, “What are you doing here?” you ask, leaning back from him slightly. 

 

“We've been keeping an eye on you,” and it isn't Sherlock who speaks but John, John who half gets out of the passenger side to look at you with concern. “Sherlock was convinced that his brother would be an idiot at some point.”

 

“And I was right,” Sherlock admits, though he hardly sounds triumphant about the fact. Then he looks at you with a startling sort of understanding in his eyes, before he asks, “Would you like to go home?” 

 

“Yes please,” you say in relief, before you have a sudden thought and exclaim, “But my things, I’ll have to go and get them.”

 

“John can go,” Sherlock says automatically and John gives Sherlock a bit of a dark look, before he gets out of the taxi properly, takes your room key from you and hurries off into the night.

 

You feel awkward as soon as it is just Sherlock and you so you face the bridge again, looking out into the dark. 

 

That is until Sherlock touches your arm with his hand lightly and causes you to look at him. “On behalf of my stupid brother I’m sorry,” he announces. 

 

You are rather touched by the gesture so you say a soft, “Thank you,” but you don’t say anything else. 

 

Finally John comes back and you are almost halfway into the car, your things safely in the boot, when a figure comes hurrying towards you through the dark from the direction of the hotel. 

 

“F/N?” a tired, slightly disbelieving voice calls in a loud and quavering tone. 

 

Your heart jumps and you automatically bite at your bottom lip, before your head turns. Mycroft has stopped now and is just staring. His white shirt stands out in the darkness. He is still wearing his waistcoat over it but his jacket has obviously been discarded somewhere. One of his hands is partly extended as if he can pull you through the darkness into his arms. His lips are slightly parted, his hair still ruffled from earlier and his eyes hold a kind of desperateness and an out of control feeling that you've rarely seen. Later you will not know why you don’t speak in that moment. You could have said so much. It is the perfect time to. But instead you just swallow, get into the back of the car beside Sherlock who holds you strongly in his arms and then you grab at John’s hand when he turns to you worriedly from the passenger seat. 

 

The car begins to move and you turn your head slightly to look out of the back window. 

 

Mycroft is still stood there, stock still, with a haunted look upon his face as his hand hovers in mid-air. 

 

Then you turn back around and close your eyes. 

 

*

 

When you wake you are curled up in your bed in 221C. You peer at the clock and realize with a start that it is four o’ clock in the afternoon. Loud voices creep underneath the main door to your flat and so you swing out of bed, pull on your f/c dressing gown over your pyjamas and go across for a closer look. 

 

Your head still feels a little fuzzy from just having woken up so you shake it slightly and rub at your eyes, before you press your head against the door and listen. 

“I won’t be long, I just need to talk to her”- Mycroft’s voice comes and he sounds unusually ruffled. 

 

“You've disturbed her enough. She’s allowed you to carry on with your life enough times now let her carry on with hers,” Sherlock’s voice thunders back. 

 

“If the both of you don’t calm down then you’re going to wake her,” John tries to intervene. 

 

“Perhaps you should go Mycroft,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice chips in. 

 

But you've had enough by that point so without caring that you are in your dressing gown you fling open the door. 

 

That at least causes everyone to shut up and stare at you. 

 

“F/N, I”- Mycroft is the first to react but he abruptly breaks off when you raise your hand. 

 

“You better come in,” you tell him tiredly, which causes both Sherlock and John to take a step forward and Mrs. Hudson to look worried. So, “I’ll be fine,” you tell them. 

 

Sherlock nods curtly, then, “We’ll just be in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen,” he informs you. 

 

You nod, feeling a bit touched that the boys don’t want to stray too far just in case you need them, then you stand aside so that Mycroft can enter, whilst the others slowly retreat. 

 

It is only when Mycroft is standing there a little awkwardly amongst the mess of your apartment that you realize he has never been inside it before. He has been on the threshold but never actually inside. You think it slightly ironic that this is the first time considering the circumstances. 

 

“I don’t want to do this any more,” you blurt out, because quite frankly you just want this conversation to be over. 

 

“So I gathered,” Mycroft utters in a tight-lipped fashion that makes you look properly at him. But your sudden eye contact makes the words, “You just left me, you have no idea how embarrassing, how unprofessional I looked today. I had to say that there had been some kind of family crisis, which meant that I had sympathetic looks all day because everyone knew I was lying. I even texted Anthea to call me during the meeting after lunch just so that I could pretend I had a reason to get away early because I couldn't even concentrate”-spill out of Mycroft’s mouth. 

 

“Good!” you retaliate, “Good! Did it make you feel awkward? Because if it made you feel a fraction of how you've made me feel then you might understand why I can’t do this any more!” 

 

His eyes flash angrily at the words but you hold your ground despite the fact that angry tears crash down your face. 

 

Mycroft’s body jerks forwards slightly as if for a moment he’d wanted to comfort you instinctively but then remembered the present situation and held back. He studies your face for a moment; at the way your eyes shine with tears and at the physically pained expression you pull. Then he says quietly but firmly, “I don’t accept that”-

 

“What?” you ask in disbelief. 

 

“I don’t,” he reiterates firmly, “I don’t accept that the reason you ran away last night was because of the fact I had to leave,” he pauses now and you fold your arms, before he treads cautiously onwards, “I think you’re scared”-

 

“Get out”-

 

“You didn't run away from that hotel because you were angry that I was taking so long to return. You ran because of what it might mean if I was there when you woke up-”

 

“I didn't, please just go”-

 

“F/N?” 

 

“No, I mean it Mycroft. I want you to leave and as soon as I can I'm going to move out.”

 

“I don’t want that.”

 

“I know you don’t but it’s not your decision it’s mine,” you finish and you both stare at each other for a moment, long enough for Mycroft to see that your mind is made up. 

 

Then, “Fine,” he murmurs softly, “I’ll let you do what you have to but don’t think I’ll just give up,” and then after one last look at you he turns around and leaves. 

 

*

 

The only contact Mycroft has with you over the next two weeks is when he watches CCTV of you. He watches as you leave Baker Street, as you go to work, to the supermarket and back to Baker Street. Each time he observes your clothes, your expressions and your body language. Each time he concludes that you don’t look particularly happy or miserable. You just look as if you are surviving and going through the motions of what each day brings you. The realization never satisfies him. So it is good in one way that Sherlock has taken it upon himself to send a text each night with a bit more of an update. ‘She misses you,’ one says, another, ‘She bought the coffee you usually drink today,’ another, ‘She’s watched the same film two nights in a row. Pretty sure something about the main male character reminds her of you.’ Mycroft had expected something scathing to follow that one but to his surprise Sherlock had left it at that. But watching CCTV of you and reading Sherlock’s texts does not help him in any way decide what to do next. You’d told him, quite plainly, to leave you alone. But if Sherlock is being accurate and not just trying to stir things up and you really are doing all those things then perhaps visiting would benefit you in some way. It isn't like he can avoid 221B forever after all. And Sherlock’s texts had given no sign that you might be moving out and he needs to talk to you. He really does because he knows now that you and he should have had the ‘How far are we comfortable to take our relationship?’ conversation a long time ago and he can’t stand the thought that he might have, for once, realized something so important too late and ruined everything.

 

*

 

“F/N?”

 

You look up and immediately tense upon seeing whom it is. 

 

Mycroft had come when both Sherlock and John were out on a case and now he stands there, looking tired and a little older than when you’d last seen him, wearing his usual three piece suit with a red tie and clutching at his usual umbrella like a child with a blanket. 

 

“Sherlock’s out,” you tell him stiffly, though inside your heart jumps and on the outside your hands become clammy. 

 

“I know,” he murmurs softly and ‘of course you do,’ you think, before, “I had hoped we could talk,” he murmurs. 

 

You swallow and then nod, before you place your book down on the arm of the armchair. 

 

He props his umbrella up by the door and then comes to sit opposite you in John’s chair. 

 

You fidget with your hands for a moment, before you force them to be still and meet his gaze instead. 

 

“I was glad you never moved out,” Mycroft opens with. 

 

“Why so you wouldn't have to alter your CCTV viewing habits?” slips out of your mouth, before you can help it. 

 

He sighs a little, before he nods as if accepting that he deserves that, then, “I still want to be with you,” he says. 

 

You look down at your lap momentarily and then slowly you look back up at him, whilst you push your hair back from your face. Then, “I've been thinking about what you said. About me being scared,” you say. 

 

He nods slowly, his eyes on yours, and you close your eyes. But it is easy to think of all the times when you’d avoided the real issue now, whether his eyes are on you or not. You’d been able to think of little else for the past two weeks and you wonder now why you hadn't seen what you’d been doing at the time. Why you hadn't seen how blatantly you’d been avoiding the real issue in your relationship with Mycroft. You open your eyes now. His eyes are still on yours. Then, “I never wanted to have sex with you that night,” you tell him heavily. 

 

“I know,” he replies and he looks relieved that you’re actually talking about the real issue now. So relieved that he leans forwards slightly, which causes his knees to be mere inches from your own.

 

“Why am I scared Mycroft?” you ask him, feeling frustrated with yourself. 

 

He swallows, then he replies as evenly and calmly as he can, whilst he looks in your eyes, “You have barely any friends, only a few family members that you are really close to and the first serious relationship that you've had is with me, so it is no wonder that you find yourself feeling uncertain.”

 

You swallow, then, “I'm sorry,” you say as a tear drops slightly from your eye. 

 

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Mycroft tells you firmly, before he adds a little ruefully, “But I think we do need to have a conversation about this if, if we go forwards.”

 

Your lip twitches now and this sudden light in the dark confuses him enough to raise an eyebrow so you explain, “Sorry, it just sounded like you were talking about a business deal.”

 

He knows what you are doing and he utters, “Excuse me for a moment,” before he draws his phone out of his jacket pocket. Then with his eyes locked on yours he presses a number and holds the phone to his ear. A beat passes, then, “Anthea? Yes, I want you to clear everything for the next twenty-four hours. Yes I'm sure. Yes, good.” Then he slips his phone back into his pocket, observes your surprised expression, takes your hands in his and announces, “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

 

You aren't quite sure whether your heart jumps or if it shudders to a halt altogether. All you know is that at his words your vision seems to narrow to just him and nothing else exists. 

 

Then, “It’s a secret of sorts. I've never told anyone else. But I'm scared too.” A small smile forms on your face now, it is uncertain but there nonetheless and Mycroft tries to send courage across to you with his eyes, before he squeezes your hands more tightly and says, “But can we at least spend the next twenty-four hours being scared together?” You nod your head slowly and let out a small nervous giggle. He smiles at you and although he wants to kiss you badly in that moment he forces himself not to. Instead he let’s go of your hands and stands up. You follow suit. 

 

Mycroft looks towards the kitchen of 221B. The table is littered with Sherlock’s clutter and something brown and foul oozes onto the table from a cracked test tube. It won’t do, he decides, to try and make anything there, so instead, “Perhaps we can continue our evening at my flat?” 

 

You nod and in relief he takes your hand and leads you out of the living room and downstairs. 

 

Mrs. Hudson chooses that moment to come and investigate. “Oooh are you back together dears?” she asks as she eyes your linked hands. 

 

You wrench your hand free, much to Mycroft’s chagrin, and draw your dark hoodie closer to your body, before with one arm folded across your chest and the other hanging down loose by your side you explain, “I'm just going over to Mycroft’s flat for a little bit.”

 

“But what should I tell Sherlock and John?” Mrs. Hudson asks, looking anxiously between Mycroft and you. 

 

“Not the truth,” Mycroft replies breezily with a fake pleasant smile, before he steers you outside. 

 

*

 

“I didn't know you could cook so well,” you state casually, as you sit on the counter and watch as Mycroft moves the wok on the hub back and forth slightly, which causes the chicken, peppers and spices to sizzle inside it. 

 

Mycroft, in just a white shirt now, with his sleeves rolled up smiles at the compliment, before he replies smoothly, “There are many things about me that I need to introduce you to my dear.”

 

You smile and reach to study the packet of some fancy spices that Mycroft has added to the wok. But you can still feel his eyes on yours so you look up at him. 

 

“What would you like to do after dinner my dear? Watch a film perhaps? Or I could always read to you?”

 

You close your eyes momentarily, whilst you think about it. A film would be nice you are sure but it doesn't quite hold the same appeal as having Mycroft’s voice wash over you and fill you up. A slight blush creeps over your cheeks at the thought and then feeling suddenly very self-conscious you open your eyes only to blush more furiously when you discover Mycroft watching you with a gentle enquiring look on his face. “Um, if you could read to me that would be nice,” you say hastily, before you run a hand through your hair and look away. 

 

Mycroft smiles at you until you have the courage to look at him. Then you suggest, “Maybe I could set the table?” for something to do.

 

“Of course, I'm assuming you remember where everything is?” he confirms politely. 

 

You nod, hop down from the counter and proceed to move around him to where the drawer with the cutlery is kept. You aren't sure if Mycroft is aware of the close proximity but you feel it immensely. You take the cutlery across to the small square table, to the side of which lays windows that covers the entirety of the wall and shows the city in the dark, the twinkling lights of every building like its own constellation of stars. 

 

Mycroft joins you a moment later, a white tablecloth over his arm. 

 

“It is a special occasion after all,” he explains, before he covers the table with it and nods appreciatively as you put the cutlery down. 

 

You aren't quite sure what to make of him watching you put the cutlery down. There are only so many ways one can put cutlery down on a table after all. So you say jokingly, “At least there’s not too many of each this time.”

 

“You don’t know how capable you are my dear,” Mycroft replies seriously, his blue eyes dark as they latch onto yours. 

 

Then he turns to fetch the dinner. You hesitate a moment, before you go after him just in case you can assist. 

 

*

 

Dinner is so good. It is just the right amount of spicy that leaves a pleasant tingling in your mouth after each mouthful rather than the kind of spicy that has you grabbing for your drink, in this case red wine, every second. 

 

You are just over halfway through it when Mycroft adjusts his position and his foot taps against yours. His head jerks up at once, as does yours, and he withdraws his foot and murmurs, “Sorry, my dear, the peril of having long legs.”

 

You smile slightly as you wonder if he’d really done it accidentally. Then very deliberately, with your eyes on his, you stretch out your foot until it comes into contact with his once more. His mouth opens slightly. “Sorry, the perils of not caring,” you tell him. Then as his eyes blow wide you turn back to your dinner. 

 

This mild flirtation continues for the rest of the meal and after you abandon the washing up and settle together on the leather settee with a book of poetry ready, and another full glass of wine each on the coffee table, you cannot help but snuggle into him slightly. Mycroft gives you a somewhat lopsided smile; before feeling relaxed he lays back on the settee, his head against the armrest and one of his long legs dropping off the side of the settee. Feeling tired and wanting to keep warm you snuggle against him even more, your head on his chest close to his heart. Satisfied he picks up the book and begins to read. 

 

His voice washes over you as warm as the sun and as rhythmic as the waves steadily hitting the shore. It does not matter about the words he speaks it only matters that his voice is serving as a constant just as his chest, which vibrates under your touch as he speaks. The room is barely lit but in your mind it feels like there must be a warm glow encompassing the whole room like your own private constellation. 

 

The same feeling grows and remains within you for hours, the passing of time only shown by the depletion of wine in both glasses, the increasing tiredness which you feel and the slight hoarse quality, which starts to infiltrate Mycroft’s voice. 

 

Then suddenly Mycroft stops and closes the book, before he stretches to put it on the coffee table. 

 

“What is it?” you mumble a little sleepily as you lift your head off his chest. 

 

“I'm afraid I have reached the end my dear,” Mycroft replies quietly, his eyes tired as well as his voice. 

 

You sit up a little and look at him in astonishment, “You read the whole book? What time is it?” 

 

“I did, and my voice is most grateful to have picked a relatively thin one. As for the time it is half-past one.”

 

Your eyes meet. Then, “Perhaps”- Mycroft begins as at the same time you say, “Maybe we could”- and you both break off at the same time. Then, “You first,” Mycroft urges, ever the gentleman.

 

“I…I guess I'm thinking that maybe we should have that conversation now. But before that can you forgive me for running off the other night and for being scared and everything and not to mention for letting you ruin your voice right now,” you say a little awkwardly. 

 

“If you can forgive me for working so much then I suppose I just might,” Mycroft replies tentatively. 

 

“Of course,” you murmur a little breathlessly as you cup his face with your hands and he stares at you with wonder in his eyes. Then, “I'm not ready to have sex but maybe…” 

 

“You could stay the night,” Mycroft manages unevenly, and his breath hits your face in a soft puff.

 

“I could,” you nod, whilst you move one of your hands to work through his hair. His head tilts closer to your hand. Then, “Maybe you've got a spare duvet I could put on the settee…or…” you trail off. 

 

“Yes?” he questions, his hand reaching up to clutch at yours and his eyes linger on your lips momentarily, before they find yours once more. 

 

“Maybe I'm brave enough to wake up and see you there beside me,” you whisper and you feel him skip a breath at your words. 

 

Then, “Shall we try it?” he asks you gently. 

 

“Okay,” you nod and you clamber off him, before he gets up too, catches your hand in his, and after a look to check that you are still okay with everything, he leads you to his bedroom. 

 

*

This time when you wake up the bed isn't cold and empty and the first things you catch sight of are Mycroft’s eyes as they gaze adoringly at your face. 

 

You smile at him sleepily. 

 

He smiles tenderly back at you, before he bends head to press a kiss to your neck. Then when his eyes are on yours once more he murmurs, “Good morning F/N.”

 

“Morning,” you reply, whilst a small smile tugs at your lips. 

 

He places a light hand on your hip now and murmurs as his brow creases slightly, “You know just because we've done this once I'm not expecting”-

 

You place a hand on his chest to placate him, then, “I know, thank you,” you tell him gently and you truly do mean it. 

 

“Are you sure?” he checks, his eyes peering at you, “Because I want, no I need you to know that I’ll wait as long as you need.”

 

You move your hand up to trace his jaw line, before you let it fall back to his chest as you wonder what you've done to deserve him. Then, “I am and thank you,” you say. 

 

He smiles, looking more reassured and then he makes to sit up, but you catch his wrist with your hand and cause him to look back at you. 

 

Then, “What are you doing?” you ask him. 

 

He raises an eyebrow, before he states, “Making you breakfast,” as if that should be obvious. 

 

But you shake your head and pull him back so that he is lying down once more. Then, just after his head hits the pillow, you ask, “Can we just stay like this for one more minute?” 

 

He turns to face you properly again and whispers, “Okay.”

 

You snuggle into his chest, whilst his hand slips onto your hip once more. 

 

In Baker Street no doubt Sherlock and John are anxiously awaiting your return and will have plenty of sage advice to dish out when you do and no doubt Mrs. Hudson will beckon you into her kitchen as soon as you arrive. 

 

But for now, as you feel safe and warm with Mycroft so close to you, there is no place you’d rather be.


End file.
